


vanity take issue

by Anonymous



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Maxwell/Wilson is implied, Sexual Frustration, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 10:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Charlie/Maxwell (Don't Starve), Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Kudos: 13
Collections: Anonymous





	vanity take issue

His jaw clamped shut, cutting off an airy hissing exhale, lips furrowed in a snarl as his jagged teeth scraped together, and the dark static behind his eyelids blocked away the tents gloomy interior, the stuffy heated air and worn, frazzled bedding, old furs clenched tight in one hand, his shadowy talons piercing through fabric as he shuddered. Back curled, tense as he gaped silently for a few good moments, panting the musty warmed tent air, pulse in his ears and old heart knocking in his chest, and Maxwell finally let his damp hand slip away from himself, hollow stomach still fluttering in faint aftershocks.

It took a few moments, to gather himself, to reign back in his senses. Moving took more out of him, knees weak and limbs dulled down with the weight of self fatigue, and the old man shakily pushed himself a bit straighter, eyes still shut tight, snaggletooth jaw still curled in a tense snarl. The warm air was discomforting to his damp hand, a shiver of revulsion that he quickly snared away, and another rattling exhale, borderline sigh escaped him as he waved blindly out to his side.

When his nightmarish claws found the handkerchief he had previously set aside he snatched it up and to him, face curdling into displeasure as he swiped the spider silk fabric over his claws, then hissed a low, wheezy hiss of discomfort as he brought it down to more...sensitive areas.

It was unfortunate, he thought, that it never was satisfying. Ironic in a way, with all the changes of himself and this world and his own reality, that _this_ just never changed.

His thighs shivered at the drag of the silk fabric, skin prickling at the sensation, he had given himself enough but not quite, he has never been good at such things, William had never mastered it-

Maxwell's jaw ached, a deep rooted pulse before the pinprick of his own jagged teeth pressing a hint too deep to his lips followed through, and he forced himself to untense, exhaling heavily from his nose, letting his knees fall, long legs outstretch before him. The handkerchief he pulled away, folded with rigid disgust before setting aside. He would take care of that at a later date.

Already the stench of nightmare fuel permeated itself about his tent, thicker and headier than usual, than before. It made his lip curl, pitch black eyes squinting open as he forced his heavy limbs to move, forced himself to tug his undergarments back on, then suit pants, shivery weak legs going too slow for his liking, too fragile, too _pathetic-_

Hissing out an exhale of mixed frustrations, of his reality of now, of where he was, what he had been doing, his entire inability to even _fucking please himself-_

Maxwell rigidly put himself back together, forced his achingly tired hands to smooth the shirt underneath, tuck in and tie and hook select undergarments he had loosened up earlier for easier breath, then tightened his suit jacket up about himself, buttoned and prim and proper.

Or, as well as he could do so. The wrinkles stayed, the stains and tears and spotting stayed, old worn threads and patchwork sewing, nicked up sleeves that had him pick at them in a dull attempt at distraction, and yet, _still-_

His gut twisted, discomfort, distance and ache and pale growling irritation, frustrations, and Maxwell's soured face curdled even more so as he dusted himself off and finished making himself presentable.

It frustrated, _angered_ him, to not achieve that which he aimed for. Everyday life within the Constant has shown him well enough what he could never hope to get himself to, but _this_ of all things to have failed so? To always fail, even?

It brought with it heated flickers of rage, memory and fantasy, and had he been less knowledgeable as he was he'd have wanted to blame it on something, or _someone_ , elsewhere. Alas, as Maxwell recalled all too well, William had also dealt with such...lack of skill.

It had been his own failing, not his inner fantasies.

...which begs the question of how Higgsbury achieved such satisfaction as the former Nightmare King had once been privy to see. 

Fantasy notwithstanding, Maxwell has seen much upon the Throne, and perhaps he fancied voyeur to peeping tom but as if a King had to ever care for such nonsense. He had the decency to not approach, not wishing to interrupt, but Wilson had a.. _way_ of going about things that held his interest for quite awhile.

Enough so as to use it for material, but alas, even with a proper fantasy in mind Maxwell found himself lacking in that which he was aiming for.

Still, the old man hissed another low exhale as he adjusted the final button of his suit jacket, then his tie - he near never tightened it up like so, left just enough loose to keep a comfort for himself, but disgrace hung off him and stuck to his tongue enough as to make his decisions more lacking in mercies than usual - and for all that it was worth he still could not shake some choice imagery from his mind.

The brightness of that deep blush, shaded with wild living and then that unshaven mess of a half beard, eyes clenched tight and pink tongue just poking out from between chapped lips, usually so scowled face twisted into wrinkled concentration, easing streams of panted satisfaction, trousers pushed well below the knees and knees spread and survival hardened body tensing up as bone clawed hands continued their ministrations down south-

And then Wilson had rolled back his head, high needy gasp deepening into shuttered huffing grunts, hips bucking and hands tightening and that oh so lovely, disgustingly well known face twisting into something of bliss and ache and utter satisfied _relief-_

The man had never quite caught on that the Nightmare King had been watching, hidden away in shadow, of dark night or tree shade or overcast clouded skies, and Maxwell's projected form had watched with keen pitch blackened eyes when his favored pawn shuddered from release, own mortal shell, tied down and buried deep within the Constants flesh, trembling with frustration, bony hands tied too tightly to the Thrones bindings and unable to bring himself any relief as They watched him with bright, ecstatic bleached eyes.

It _angered_ him, some of these memories, as faintly, shamefully cherished as they were. Touching himself with such thoughts, eyes closed and _indulging_ in what his mind could recall for him…

What was meant to give him his own satisfaction only coalesced into something bitter and prickly, thick with damp, shivering frustration.

Taking in a breath, face still snarled but now fairly certain he looked no part of what he had previously been doing, the stench of fuel could be easily explained away as dealings with the Codex after all, Maxwells hands trailed the motion of dusting himself off, a self comforting move that helped focus and distract.

Just enough to be presentable.

The dark night outside, mild temperatures from an early autumn, didn't quite ease back the prickly sensation of dissatisfaction, not at all, but his knees cracked as he straightened up, back aching and lungs flagging with a wheezed weak exhale, a far deeper pushed inhale, and Maxwell snarled away the past few minutes in a blunted, mentally near violent manner. 

It may show on his sneering face, perhaps, but he was in luck; no one else was up nearby.

The small glowing embers of his own campfire caught to the logs he tossed in, lighting up and mixing with the far brighter dancing flames of the main camp some good few feet away from him. Just enough to see by and set himself up, but with less of a safety net to the night surrounding on all sides.

A glance towards the heart of the thrown together, barely civilized campsite did not show him much, but Maxwell knew the automaton was at watch tonight, sitting farther out and watching, waiting. Hounds were not due for another near week, giants less so, but it was far better to be safe than sorry.

It was a good thing Maxwell's own pathetic excuse of a tent was set up a bit away from the center - Wx78 had exceptional hearing, and a dark curdle of disgust graced his chest at the thought of the being hearing him and his weak, frustrated groans. The thought of _anyone,_ really, and Maxwell's face twisted worse as he shoved such things away from his mind.

With the fire lit, his own small ration of logs barely able to hold through a single night, Maxwell snarled down at that weak little few spits of flame, watched the light as it danced in warm colored spins with the nights ever encroaching, testing darkness.

Standing here, body finally calmed enough to not be so disgustingly distracted, only residue frustrations clinging along and pressed far too close to his aching insides, Maxwell glared at the firelight and wondered why he even bothered.

Outside, just a few feet away from him really, he knew Charlie was watching him.

Her presence was a living thing, slipping through the cracks and notches and worn trails of Their ever present _watching_ , mixed and shaded in together yet so distinctly apart from the nightmares that ruled this cruel reality. His tense shoulders prickled from the sharp drag of her gaze, the silence of night broken by even more silent footsteps, silent dragging shadows, slither and hook and claw and creep, and after a few moments Maxwell heaved a worn, tired out sigh, dark eyes falling closed as his small fire started on its way to a dwindle.

As Queen, atop that Throne of Living Nightmares, Charlie must be well aware of his failings.

Then again, she was already well versed in him and his lack of. For all his time here within the Constant, Maxwell remembered well enough of that.

_"T-that f, feels, feels - oh~!"_

_William had been reduced to panting, shuddering as his spine arched, body going tense and brain flooded with sparking burns of bliss, going under as warm lips pressed to his chin, trailed up then caught his mouth, a hand at the back of his neck guiding his head down and the other, oh, the other-_

_When Charlie pulled away, warm lips glistening and blushed warm face practically glowing, eyes hooded low and dark and that soft hand still, still touching him, guiding him through the aftershock leftovers, William must have looked such a sight because she had tipped back her head and ~laughed~_

_"You've not done this much before, have you, Maxie?"_

_"Mmn, n-not, not w-with-"_

_His answer got choked with a pitched gasp, not expecting those fingers to crook and press into him with a bit more finesse this time, jolting as Charlie giggled, light and airy and absolutely, intoxicatingly **wonderful**. _

_Even as the shudders faded from him, drew back as they always did with such a distinctly shameful let down, the woman holding him in her arms beamed at him as if he meant all the world to her._

_And that was enough to take a shiver thin breath and melt in her warm, firm grip._

_She had pressed his head against her, cushioned to her bare chest, just enough to urge him into shakily opening up his half inexperienced mouth, kisses and sloppy, nervously messy motions of shivery lust and adoration, eyes lidded over and glazed when she finally took her hand away and held his chin up with damp fingers, enough to get him to look almost dizzily up at her._

_She had smiled then, leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the tip of his long nose, one hand sweeping his thin hair, damp with sweat, out of his face, and that **wonderful** smile on her face grew as he looked up at her with enamored, striving adoration._

_"Now, Maxie," she had said, airy and light, warm smile near to his face, warm breasts cushioning him from where she had guided him close, leaned against her, warm hands already trailing, holding and lightly nudging at his head, carefully pushing him lower "how about you put those big pretty lips of yours to work, hm?"_

Maxwell opened his eyes once more, sucked in a rattling hiss of a breath, and the memory was tainted now with shadow, ever so slightly twisted by the Throne, but he could never find nor identify where, when, _how_ , not anymore. Vaguely he knew he had been nervous, William had been so very nervous, still unused to the name, unused to the idea of changing his name once more, this time something he had previously chose and not his birth tag, but Charlie had indeed been there, warm and full and pleasing, and he had been a nervous wreck but she just had to twist her warm hands to him once and William had positively _melted_ in her grip, satisfying pleasure shared or not it never quite seemed to matter in the whole grand scheme of things.

She didn't speak much, of her prior experiences, but then neither did he. The fact that she had been so...unfazed, perhaps, should have tipped him off, but Maxwell recalled her mentioning a sister, her sister and a partner, and then there were those specific bars and lively parties she was able to convince him to go along with her to…

The Constant, unfortunately, did not favor memories from before the arrival here. Maxwell could only recall so much, and yet it all too often felt of so little.

All too much not the same as it had once been.

_"There you go Maxie, there…" she had trailed off, breathy voice warm as her hands had threaded through his hair, helped guide him along, inexperienced and nervous as he had been. "Keep it up, hmm…"_

_"Such a good boy, Maxie, such a good boy. That beautiful mouth of yours can do so much more than...than just captivate an audience, can't it~"_

...Such memory, unfortunately, just brought up his tense, untaken care of frustrations.

Slowly Maxwell turned around, dark glower focused out to the blind night that surrounded his little offshoot of a camp, the blackness of shadows and Them and eternally watchful Queen.

For a brief moment, he wavered, opened his mouth, eyes dulling in distracted, almost entertained thought.

Then something shifted, moved out a bit away, behind and in the camp away him, the drop of a chest lid, crackling pop of log fed fire, the light squeak of the icebox opening, and Maxwell snapped his jagged maw of a mouth closed, bitter shame flooding in as his sense of weakness laid heavy to his veins, his very limbs. His legs still trembled, ever so slightly, a distinctly damp discomfort that he snarled himself to enduring, no evidence of such from his suit pants fabric at the very least, and with that Maxwell turned away from the ever watching, patiently waiting night outside of himself, his camp, and this campsite of pawn civility. 

The dirt by the fire was padded, uncomfortable but better than damp earth or stringy grasses, and Maxwell settled himself with the creaks of his limbs, the twisting discomfort of his gut and well below, legs crossing and arms folding securely in his lap.

A part of him wished for retreat, a sneaking thing wishing for another try, to fold back into his tent, sodden with the stench of nightmare fuel, of what he had allowed himself to become, and to take his shadow twisted claws and try _again_ -

But it would be a fruitless effort, as he has tried so many times before. His arms tightened, taloned hands, now gloved in old worn leather, clawing to the fabric of his sleeves, shoulders hunching low as his jagged toothy jaw grit tight once more, and Maxwell focused a tired, frustratedly bitter scowl at the fires flames, dark pitch black eyes reflecting the warm light.

Though he knew it would be in vain, the former Nightmare King heaved a shuddering sigh, felt the Queens gaze slowly slide off him in boredom, and let himself hope that maybe, next time, it might turn out far better.

False hope, Maxwell knew, dark eyes falling closed, no belief in such a thing, but better that than accepting the inevitable of his own failings.


End file.
